Just Another Night
by Cristipotter
Summary: Why do you listen to that thing? She asks. The music keeps the thoughts away. Unfortunately, it fails to drown the noise from the outside. It's just another night for Shinji, Misato and Asuka. One-shot. Slight Shinji/Asuka.


**Disclaimer: I don't own Evangelion. I'd probably wouldn't be able to handle it.**

**AN: Just a drabble-like something that came out from nowhere. Includes _very_ slight Shinji/Asuka. It's more like Shinji, Asuka and Misato dealing with life.**

XXX**  
**

**Just Another Night**

The volume is never too high on his ears. It's just another attempt at drowning his own thoughts, hopeful to get some sleep. But yet the music always fails at drowning the still existing sounds from the outside. Sometimes, he doesn't know which noise is worse.

_Who screams louder? _

Tonight is classical. An old cassette he found on the depths of his bag, forgotten up until now. Probably a gift from someone caring enough, wanting him to gain some true musical knowledge. He couldn't mind less what sound drums on his ears as long as it successfully keeps his wandering thoughts at bay, because the more far they wander, the less he's likely to get some sleep.

But still, a boy must have his options to choose from, and tonight he's chosen classical. A cassette with the words _Franz Schubert _on the side.

The strings start building up along with the percussion, and the brass vibrates inside his very brain. Thinking the change of music to something different might, for once, cover whatever happens on the outside proves to be a mistake. It doesn't matter what type of music it is, after all. The volume is always on the same level.

And it happens when the instruments reach their peak; he perceives a sound that seems completely out of place. Instead of coming from his earphones, the voice comes from the bathroom, groaning and high-pitched, and he knows she must be going through one of those nights again.

She's shouting, and the echo against the tiled walls of the bathroom do nothing less than magnify her voice. She screams over the violas, and the horns, and the timpani, and he wonders if he's lucky that at least he has all this instruments to avert him in the slightest.

Misato, on the other hand, must be dealing with her own thoughts too while lying awake in her own room. Nothing more than whatever's on her mind and Asuka's voice as company.

She screams in German. Always in German. He doesn't flinch.

_Are you listening?_

Tonight's ballads, simply because that's the cassette his hand first made contact with. He has nothing against the romantic, and he lets the male singer's baritone continue with the final stages of his song. He was never one to skip tracks. He just lets the cassette play everything that's recorded on its tape.

Something clicks, and he doesn't know if it's the sound of the changing track or the opening door. Or maybe it's both.

He's facing the ceiling when the light that invades his dark room is proof enough that the door was indeed opened. He can see the young woman from the corner of his eye. She just stands there for a moment, a perfect silhouette against a rectangle of yellow light. He doesn't need to move a muscle, or even detach his eyes from the ceiling, to know she has her hands on her hips, and her hair is down, too. He just knows her like that.

Just not like she knows him.

"You're doing synchro tests tomorrow before school."

She just knows he's lying there awake. She just knows the volume is never too high. She just knows he is, in fact, listening.

"Your father will be there. I have to report your percentages so I expect you to be there on time."

Her voice has changed. He notices it even as the male singer practically screams in his ear, the volume preventing any real damage to his eardrums. It's not even enough to muffle her voice, the one that's becoming sterner with each passing night. It's never enough to muffle the outside. At least it's still proficient at muffling the inside.

He acknowledges her by rolling on his covers until he's completely giving her his back. She doesn't even murmur goodnight before the room goes dark again.

Something clicks. The song hasn't changed yet.

_Why?_

Tonight is rock; particularly heavy, particularly noisy. It's not like he has a favorite, but this cassette happens to be the one he listens to the most for a reason. Maybe it's the way the drums and the guitar do such a good job at drowning his thoughts when they are uneasy at best. Maybe is the voice of whoever's singing; strained, pained, almost matching what's become Misato's stern one. Or Asuka's screams from the bathroom, the ones only she can understand. The ones she hasn't once acknowledged yet, not that either of them has mentioned anything.

Something clicks, and since the guitar is going steady he knows it must be the door. He also knows it isn't Misato; all the lights are out and the door clicks shut almost immediately after it's opened.

It doesn't matter how incredibly noisy rock is. The volume is always the same and it fails to even muffle the bare-footed steps she takes towards him, or the way the sheets ruffle as she pulls them and climbs to his side.

It must be one of those nights then, he guesses. Not the kind that sends her to thrash in the bathroom, shouting God knows what kind of obscenities, and curses, and foul words in German. The nights she probably spends damning everything around her, including Misato, and him, and maybe Pen-Pen isn't spared either.

No. It's one of those nights that, instead of rage, there's just something incessantly nibbling at the back of her mind. When her thoughts just become too overwhelming to be alone with them in a room. When she just needs him against her back, dealing with his own thoughts in his own way.

This isn't the first time she's done this, after all.

She's warm. He can feel her as her shoulder blades knock with his, her back pressed straight against him. Her hair tickles his neck and his face. She's always so thoughtless, of course, not even bothering to fix it. He doesn't bother either.

Something clicks, and it's just the Walkman telling him the next song will now play. He's facing the wall, and she's facing the door, and both are miles away from actual sleep. He knows they're both caught in the same situation because, in spite of the guitars and the bass, he can hear her breathe. _Feel_ her breathe, her body heaving against him, much too shallow to be asleep.

"How can you sleep with that?"

Her voice is low, but it cuts sharply through every other sound and silence that surrounded both. He's slightly startled, but he doesn't let her know that. Or maybe she has already realized it by the sudden shift in his rhythmic breath.

"Why do you listen to that thing?"

He pulls a strand of red hair away from his lips, the first time he moves since he put the earphones on already a long while ago. He ignores how stiff he's become.

"It keeps the thoughts away," he mutters through the darkness. The singer is bellowing, but it's not too high. It's never too high.

"Does it keep the noise away?"

He notices how every word she says reverberates on her rib cage and against his back. He can feel the words even through the fabric, and he wonders if she's asking if he's heard her shout in the bathroom.

"No." He wonders if she can also feel his words against her. He wonders many things about her. "But it's better than nothing."

There's silence. In spite of the music, there's silence. For a moment he thinks she's decided to leave it at that. He would think she's decided to drift into sleep if it weren't so damn difficult.

And then she shifts against him, her shoulder pressing against his back. He merely blinks at her sudden movement, and then her fingertips are grazing his left earlobe. She's soft.

The guitar solo is minimized to his right ear. She has taken one of the earphones and is back to her previous position; her back straight against his, two pairs of shoulder blades connecting somehow comfortably.

It's the same difference anyway, as long as it keeps the thoughts away. He has learned already that the noise outside is impossible to muffle. At least, they both know that now.

It's just another night, and the volume is never high enough. Then again, it should never be.

XXX


End file.
